


Silver and Red

by HeavyShoegaze



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, because they're being low-key about it, definitely not for Dany haters, ish, not bashing anyone, the jonerys is minor, though Sansa isn't happy with either Jon or Dany
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 05:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeavyShoegaze/pseuds/HeavyShoegaze
Summary: When the Dragon Queen comes to Winterfell, Sansa Stark finally meets the woman to whom her brother bent the knee.





	Silver and Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Arya talk while they wait for their brother to come home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter! I hope this gets across the general idea and feel of this work!

Chapter 1: Waiting and Wondering

 

Sansa

“What is he like? Jon, I mean,” Arya asked, as the Stark sisters stood on the balcony. Winterfell was alight with activity ever since the raven arrived from White Harbor. Jon had insisted that the Wall had fallen, that the Night King rode a dragon. Whether this was some kind of metaphor or something else, Sansa couldn’t say much for that; she’d grown used to Jon’s intermittent and cryptic correspondence. Even still, men-at-arms were posted at all the gates and Maester Wolkan had sent ravens to all the Northern Lords. He took special care to send ravens to Cerwyn, Barrowtown, and Torrhen’s Square, whose rangers would be most likely to meet the Dragon Queen’s armies marching up the King’s Road. Having Bran, or the _Three-Eyed-Raven_ as he insisted he be called, should have been of help, but he’d planted himself in the Godswood under the Heart Tree and turned away all visitors. _Tell me when the King arrives_ , Bran had said. When Sansa told him that Jon had ceded his crown – that he was king no more – he merely tilted his head and turned away. It was a gesture Sansa had become familiar with, one that said Bran knew more than he’d let on.

Sansa surveyed her home from her perch, standing where her mother and father would when they watched the Stark children at play. It seemed like so long ago that that her family was whole, and Winterfell her warm childhood home. It hadn’t been so long ago, had it, Sansa wondered. Half the castle was in ruins now, but she could still make out the ghost of the mighty fortress that had sheltered her as a small girl. That was before, though. Before she left the safety of its walls and the monsters outside had eaten everything. Like Winterfell, her family was but a ghost of what it was. Sansa was hardly the little girl more interested in fantasies and songs of the south than the loving family around her. Bran was unrecognizable, an emotionless shell bearing the faintest resemblance to the excitable brother she’d remembered. Arya was a remorseless killer, who’d slit throats and poisoned families without batting an eye. For all that Sansa hated Walder Frey and his wretched family, she didn’t think she had the stomach to slaughter the entirety of them like sheep, smiling at their choked pleas for mercy… and she’d fed Ramsay to his own dogs.

And Jon… Somehow Jon had changed the most.

Sansa didn’t have many memories of Jon Snow – in truth, she didn’t have any. He was always in Robb’s shadow, the sullen, brooding counterpoint to Robb’s charm and vibrance. Where Robb was proud and brave, boisterous and dashing, Jon was quiet and withdrawn. He avoided everyone’s eyes and spent most of his time alone. Sansa always thought him bitter and dull and jealous, and in truth it hadn’t taken much from her mother to get her to altogether refuse to acknowledge her father’s bastard. _Poor Jon, he gets so jealous because he’s a bastard_ , Arya had sneered, throwing her own words back at her when she accused Sansa of trying to take Jon’s crown. It stung, mostly because it was true. Sansa could remember the bitter taste in her mouth when Lord Manderly stood and crowned _Jon_ , even though she’d been the rightful heir to Winterfell. The Lords hadn’t batted an eye, crowning a bastard even though it was _she_ who brought the Vale to their cause.

But Jon wasn’t the same dour boy who she’d so easily cast from her mind when she left Winterfell. Jon had grown too. The man she’d met in Castle Black, the one who walked down the stairs and stared at her in wonder for a moment before hugging her close… it felt like she was holding her father again.

It felt like she was home.

But Jon wasn’t their father, not exactly. It bothered Sansa, how little she knew of her half-brother. Jon wasn’t like Cersei or Littlefinger or any of the schemers Sansa had known in the South. He was devoid of artifice and falseness where they were naught but false smiles and poisonous words. But all the same, there was a shadow to Jon, a part of him that he locked away from the world. When Sansa asked about his own trials, he talked of the White Walkers, of Hardhome and the massacre that haunted his every waking moment. He told her about Janos Slynt, whom he’d executed, of how at least one of the men who’d betrayed their father found justice. He spoke of the Night’s Watch and how underprepared they were for the Long Night. He spoke of run-down castles and demoralized men, and of a few brave souls he trusted with his life. It didn’t much sound like the stories Uncle Benjen told them when he was granted leave to come to Winterfell.

The most curious thing happened when Sansa pointed that out. She’d made some passing remark about how the stories that brought Jon to the Wall – the stories of the warriors of the honorable Black Brotherhood that were nothing but lies and wind – were close to the songs she used to love, the ones that made her dream of being Queen. Jon had chuckled darkly at that, shaking his head at something Sansa didn’t understand. It was something Sansa recognized in herself, the darkness that would fall over her thoughts when they strayed to Ramsay Bolton. She’d wanted to press him, to ask what had happened to him, but Jon was stubborn and secretive, and while they were certainly closer than before, that didn’t make them _close_. Whatever had happened at Castle Black to make Jon leave, he wasn’t willing to share it with her.

The conversation had moved to Jon’s new Crown – and furthermore the future of the North. Giving Sansa Winterfell was well and good, but she knew it was merely an honorific. Sansa wasn’t so naïve to think that Winterfell would be hers forever – when Jon married and sired an heir, the castle and the North would fall to him. It was Sansa’s position that Jon should marry soon like their father had done. Wedding one of the Manderly girls or Alys Karstark or one of Glover’s daughters would strengthen their hold on the North and secure the future of House Stark.

Jon had refused to entertain the idea, though. _I’m a Snow_ , he’d said, shaking his head in disagreement. _You, Sansa, are the future of House Stark. When the Long Night is over, Winterfell and the North are yours_. It had been a nice thought, but after Ramsay, Sansa had no desire to marry again. As much as he didn’t like it, _Jon_ was the future of House Stark.

Despite her insistence, though, Jon remained steadfast. _I won’t father a bastard, Sansa._ That the child would be no bastard didn’t persuade him. _I won’t leave any child with the name Snow_ , he said, _and that’s all I can give him_. Sansa knew better than to tell him he _was_ a Stark. Though Sansa and Jon had left Winterfell at the same time, only one of them had truly wanted to return home. Jon had Winterfell, had the North – he had everything a bastard could ever want – and he couldn’t wait to be rid of it. It was hard for Sansa not to be insulted – the Northern Lords all questioned _her_ loyalty to the House Stark because of two marriages she’d been forced into. After all she’d given up for their family, one would think taking a wife wouldn’t be such a difficult sacrifice for him, but Jon had vehemently refused.

There was only one explanation. Sansa remembered from her childhood the way servants would gossip about the identity of Jon’s mother. _It must have been quite the woman, to make the honorable Eddard Stark forget his honor_ , they would whisper amongst themselves when the Lord of Winterfell or his wife were out of earshot. Perhaps Jon really was their father come again, for he too had a woman he’d clearly loved – a woman whose name he couldn’t bring himself to say. A woman worth giving up his honor and forsaking his duty. Sansa wondered when her brother had given away his heart, and what had happened that woman, but when she asked Jon what her name was, he turned away. When she pressed him, when she asked him to finally _trust_ her and to let her in, Jon bid her goodnight and stormed off, a clenched jaw and a single tear rolling down his cheek the only answer she got.

He still didn’t trust her.

For all that they’d reconciled in Castle Black, for all that he’d said that he’d forgiven her, he _hadn’t._ Not in full, that is. Returning to Winterfell, a part of him still felt the weight of his birth, still looked at her as if expecting her to turn up her nose like she’d done as a girl.

If Sansa saw their father in Jon, then perhaps it was only justice that he look at her and see her mother. Sansa wondered if the ghost of Catelyn Stark would haunt their relationship forever, and if there would ever come a day when Jon truly trusted her.

 

“Sansa,” Arya said impatiently. She stomped her foot childishly. Five years ago, that might have started yet another fight, but after all that Arya had been through – all that both of them had been through – it was nice to see Arya act like a child. “I asked you a question.”

“Sorry,” Sansa said apologetically. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“Like dragons?” Arya asked excitedly. “I wonder if the Dragon Queen rides a dragon like Rhaenys and Visenya.”

“I would hope not,” Sansa muttered. Arya caught that, tilting her head slightly. Stormy grey eyes flitted from Sansa’s face.

“You think she’s a threat,” Arya said, matter-of-factly. One hand went to the pommel of Needle, that sword Jon had given her. Every time they’d talked about their half-brother, Arya’s hand was drawn to the hilt of the weapon. It was a reminder for Sansa of just where Arya’s loyalties lay. “Jon seems to trust her,” she pointed out.

“Jon’s… _trusting_. Like Robb. Like father,” Sansa returned. _We both know what happened to Robb and father_ went unsaid. Neither of them needed the reminder.

“You think Daenerys Targaryen is like Littlefinger or Roose Bolton or Walder Frey?” Arya asked worriedly.

“We don’t know,” Sansa said, a hint of resignation in her tone. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”

“It’s not easy for Jon to send ravens all the way from the South,” Arya reminded her. “He sends word when he can.”

“We don’t know what happened in Dragonstone,” Sansa said bitterly. “All we know is that Jon bent the knee. He gave the North away.”

“I know Jon did the right thing,” Arya said defiantly, crossing her arms. “You could stand to trust Jon more.” _He could stand to return the favor,_ Sansa thought, though she didn’t say it aloud. She knew that there would be no changing Arya’s mind. To her little sister, Jon wasn’t just a brother. Jon was the thing keeping her sane, the thing reminding her that no matter where she went or what she did, she was Arya Stark of Winterfell.

“Did you hear of this Dragon Queen in Braavos?” Sansa asked, remembering how far travelled Arya had been.

“Bits and pieces,” Arya admitted. “It is hard to know what was real and what a rumor. Some say she had bat wings and bathes in the blood of babes. And others…”

“And others?” Sansa prompted. “What do they say.”

“Some call her a liberator. Some call her a monster. Some say she’s kind and generous. Some say she’s her father come again…” Sansa shuddered. That had been her greatest fear, that another mad Targaryen would kill another Stark, that the South would take more and more. “…and some say she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“That’s what Littlefinger said,” Sansa mused aloud, ignoring the way Arya scoffed at her mention of the late Lord Baelish. “He said she was Shiera Seastar come again. Do you know who that is?” Arya frowned and shook her head. “She was one of the Great Bastards of Aegon the Unworthy. Like Bittersteel and Bloodraven and Blackfyre. Littlefinger said Shiera Seastar was so beautiful men fought and died just to look at her, that lords from near and far came to King’s Landing to court her, that they’d throw themselves from their towers when they lost her favor.”

“You think that the Dragon Queen _seduced_ Jon?” Arya exclaimed a little too loudly. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Jon was in the Night’s Watch,” Sansa reminded her. “And even before that he was hardly the kind of man to bed whores. Not like Theon.” Sansa quieted for a second, remembering the broken man who bore only the faintest resemblance to the haughty, proud ward she’d known growing up. “Has he even… _known_ a woman?” she asked. She omitted any mention of Jon’s past lady love – she wasn’t a little girl to gossip about such matters, and she didn’t know enough information either way.

“How would I know?” Arya scoffed. “That is a question for Bran, if anything.”

“Either way…” Sansa trailed off. Littlefinger’s words trailed in her mind, refusing to let go. _Daenerys Targaryen is young and beautiful and unmarried. Jon is young and handsome and unmarried. It’s a wise match… but where would that leave you? On your knees, yet again._ She knew that until Daenerys Targaryen came to Winterfell, she’d never sleep easy.

“Maybe you’re just worried she’s prettier than you,” Arya teased. Sansa scoffed. Perhaps the old Sansa, the one that wanted nothing more than to be the perfect lady would have worried about how she compared to the Dragon Queen, but she’d grown up beyond such fancies.

“You asked about Jon, though?” Sansa asked with a smile. Arya turned to her eagerly. Sansa could understand her excitement. She’d not had a fraction of the love for Jon Snow that Arya had growing up, but she could remember how overwhelmed she felt when she saw Jon walk down those stairs in Castle Black. “He’s…” she paused, searching for the words. “He’s _so much like Father_ it hurts,” Sansa choked. “He’s quieter than he was when we were children, if that was at all possible. He has a lot of scars that father didn’t, but it’s frightening how much like Father he is. He has Father’s kindness and his honor. The weight of his duty haunts him, but he never complains. He’s the bravest man I’ve ever known. When Ramsay had Rickon, Jon rode ahead to save him. I… I told him it wasn’t worth it, but Jon would die to protect his family.”

“He was always like that,” Arya said, a hint of pride on her face. “You just never saw it, but Jon was always the best man in the world.” Arya would know, Sansa mused, knowing how far Arya had travelled on her way home. “He was always a true Stark.”

“I told him that,” Sansa said, slightly sadly. “When we took Winterfell back, he told me that there was finally a Stark in Winterfell. I told him there two. He said he wasn’t a Stark, and I said that to me, he was as much a Stark as I.” Arya nodded in agreement.

“That sounds like Jon.”

“But then he said, _I’m not a Stark… and I stopped wanting to be one a long time ago,_ ” Sansa said, staring into the distance.

“Then he _has_ changed,” Arya said sadly. She looked up to one of the banners that hung from the walls. “I guess that explains the new sigil,” she mused, staring at the white direwolf with red eyes racing on a field of black. It was a compromise – the closest Sansa could get to convincing Jon to adorn himself in their ancestors’ ancient family crest.

The sisters stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the bustling courtyard below until Arya broke the silence.

“Did… did he miss me?” Arya asked hesitantly. “I missed him. _So much_.” Her voice broke, and Sansa smiled inwardly at the thought that even after all that Arya had been through, Jon could still pull a world of emotions from her.

“He came to the Godswood every day to pray that you would come home,” Sansa said honestly. “I don’t know if he has much faith in the Old Gods anymore, but he’d pray for you regardless. When we took back Winterfell, even before the Lords named him King, he ordered Maester Wolkan to send ravens announcing Ramsay’s death. He wanted to be sure that wherever you were, you knew it was safe to return.”

“I got the message,” Arya swallowed, her voice heavy. “Now it’s his turn to come home.”

“Aye,” Sansa agreed, taking Arya’s hand. “Now he has to come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things.
> 
> First, this is from Sansa's perspective, mostly. I thought hers would be the most interesting to write from. That being said, I'm not gonna turn Dany into a monster because, well, she's my favorite character in both the books and the show. So if you're looking for Dany bashing, or for her too be meek and stuff, this might not be for you. Naturally, Dany is gonna come into conflict (or at least, disagreement) with Sansa and Arya, but don't expect it to be a good vs. evil kind of affair. 
> 
> Second, this is loosely canon compliant with the end of Season 7 of Game of Thrones. I normally tend to write from the books' universe as opposed to the show because that's what I prefer, but I was inspired to start writing this. I took some liberties with the characters - mostly Jon - but I think this is pretty faithful to the characters and their complexities.
> 
> About Jon and the whole "I don't want to be a stark" stuff... I always thought one of the greatest parts of Jon's arc in both the books and the show was when he turns down Stannis. It's not just about vows (in my opinion). Jon refuses Stannis's offer for the same reason he ultimately doesn't desert after Ned dies. He's not a Stark anymore. He's a brother of the Night's Watch. And him growing out of wanting to be a Stark is important to his maturing as a character. It's about accepting who he is and finding his own place in the world instead of living in Robb's and Ned's shadows, and that's important as we near the revelation that he's a true-born Targaryen. 
> 
> I wrote Jon pretty angsty here (at least from Sansa's point of view), but I wanted to show that while they're not enemies per se, they still butt heads. Sansa sees Jon as thinking she can't do anything because she's a girl, and Jon sees Sansa as still looking down on him because he's a bastard. So he's not as willing to open up to her about the mutiny or about Ygritte. It's also symbolic of the way in which he's drifting from Stark to Targaryen, since one of the main turning points in Jon and Dany's relationship is her finding out about his death (and Ygritte at some point). 
> 
> Anyways, that's a lot of unnecessary rambling. I hope you think this is at least interesting and all. I'm pretty shitty about keeping up with ongoing stories, but I'm trying to write more consistently. I figure a good place to start would be writing something every week. 
> 
>  
> 
> I like this, though. Feel free to drop a comment and let me know what you think!!


End file.
